Cole shook his head and tried to change the subject, to divert his younger friend from his growing agitation. “Actually, I’ve come to really appreciate the poems of Mr. Richter, whosoever he is. They have a sort of charm that is lacking in a lot of poetry.”
“Self-indulgent nonsense,” Peter sniffed, kicking a clod of dirt across the dugout floor.
“Be that as it may, Peter,” Cole responded, “the poems are true, and sweet. They come from that place inside of us where everyone touches the poetic imagination. I think that, in a dark world that is crumbling on its rotted foundation,” he pointed upwards with his index finger, “sweet and true is nice to have around.”
Peter took a deep breath and thought for a moment in silence. It seemed that he had been unofficially elected as leader, and the other three younger members of the group seemed to want his approval even as they sought, as youth always does, to act as if their world didn’t hinge on receiving it. He nodded to Cole, as if in resignation, but he thought to himself how perhaps the book’s pages could be better used as an accessory kept near the tunnel’s toilet. He smiled at his own wicked humor.
“I suppose we can go check out the water plant, but if we go, everything needs to go with us. We’ll just stay there. We’ll have to find a way to obscure our footprints from the snow, and we’ll have to move quickly and silently. We’ll surface only meters outside the fence, and if there are patrols in Warwick, then they would see us. We’ll need to be ready to run for it.”
“This will be the most dangerous thing we’ve done yet,” Lang said, nodding his head.
“Well, I disagree with that, Lang,” Peter said. Cole nodded, agreeing with Peter. “Your trip from here back to the gym and then through the town door to door was extremely dangerous, and perhaps not a little stupid,” Cole gently agreed, and the three let Lang bask in that recognition for a moment.
Natasha smiled. “I’m glad you did it, Lang. I’d hate to be back there in Warwick, trying to hide from the mob or from Mikail’s goons.”
“Well, we aren’t out of Warwick yet,” Peter said. “Perhaps it is good that we leave now. We’ll get some distance between us and that stinking pit of a town.”
An unabridged retelling of the historic mad dash from the tunnel’s exit to the water plant might be in order someday, if the story ever gets told in its entirety. The escape was historic, because, as far as any of them knew, no one had successfully escaped Warwick and gotten away since the great confusion in ’92. It was mad because the four individuals who made the escape had no idea what awaited them on the outside. They did not know if anyone, perhaps even the Americans, still patrolled the forest. They did not know if the Russian Spetznaz had snipers or soldiers watching the perimeter to prevent escapes. They did not know if they would run into mayhem or violence in the forest from people escaping the cities, and they did not know if the water plant was occupied—if perhaps gangs of refugees were using the treatment facility as a hideout or headquarters. In short, they knew nothing, and that is what made their historic escape an act of madness. It was a rush into the unknown.
But they made it, and, in reality, the whole escapade went off without a hitch. They poked their heads up into the clear cold air outside the fences of Warwick, and they saw neither soldiers nor gangs. The first sprint into the deeper forest was accomplished purely on adrenaline, a pounding heart terror that embraced and squeezed the mind. After the four of them were clear of the open and lightly treed area, they moved slower and more circumspectly. They used branches to try to obscure their direction, and several times they doubled back in order to hide their intended path.
They didn’t know how successful they’d been, and wouldn’t know for some time, but they did make it to the water plant, and, once there, they did a thorough reconnaissance of the plant before digging in for a stay that they figured to last four or five days.
“I say we stay until Friday,” Peter said. “By Friday, we’ll know more about if the EMP has actually taken place, and what its ramifications are.”
“You’re the leader, Peter,” Cole said, as he walked around the sheet-metal covered work shed that they’d chosen as their temporary home.
“Yes, Peter,” Natasha said, nodding. “We’re with you, so you tell us what to do, and we’ll do it.”
“Ok, then,” Peter said, “we’ll need to gather up some wood for a fire. This place is ventilated up near the roof, and it’ll be cold at night, but we can use several different tricks to stay warm. The EMP, if it is coming, hasn’t happened yet, so our main threats, if they come, will come from Warwick. After the EMP, it won’t get any worse immediately, so we shouldn’t have to worry about strangers hiking through the woods quite yet.”
“Well, Peter,” Cole said, scratching his head, “if what you are saying is accurate, and I have no reason to believe that it isn’t, then why don’t we head out on our walk now? Wouldn’t that give us a few more days lead time before things get bad?”
“Not really, Cole,” Peter said. “The EMP is supposed to happen today. That means all sorts of things can happen, including planes dropping out of the sky, explosions from power lines and transformers, fires, and all sorts of things that remain unknown to us. In addition, the violence could break out almost immediately when the EMP hits—not here, but out there—and it will grow over several days. We’re hoping that the biggest brunt of the effects—after people realize that they are in big, big trouble—will happen in the first three days. After that, it won’t be much better, but at least we will be able to watch where we are, where we are going, and what is ahead of us. If we go now, we could find ourselves in the middle of trouble in unknown territory when the match strikes the fuse. I just think we should wait and then make our way once we have more information.”
“Like we said, Peter, you’re in charge,” Cole responded with a smile. In his smile, he hinted at the smallest bit of doubt.
Peter opened up his pack and pulled out one of the radios he brought from the house. He left Clay’s radio in the ammo can, just in case, but he wanted to listen awhile, to hear what life was like outside, and gather whatever intelligence they could while they still had the opportunity.
Lang, Natasha, and Cole crowded around Peter as he tuned the radio, and before long he found a station that was on the air. The newswoman went through a litany of stories about the recent “troubles.” There were reports of riots and looting in the cities, places like Boston, and Philadelphia, but most of it was less dire than the Warwickians had heard from inside the village. Lang reminded them that one of the last things Lev Volkhov had told him was that they shouldn’t believe anything they hear, especially from the “authorities.” Governments will lie about the extent of unrest and violence, if only to keep that violence from spreading to as-yet unaffected areas.
It seemed from the news broadcast that the authorities were trying to make the recent troubles and turmoil out to be purely economic. As of this morning, the reports said, the stock market had crashed in a magnitude unseen in history. Despite what seemed to be obvious attempts to minimize the extent of the disruptions, the reporter mentioned riots and street disturbances in most of the big cities of America, civic unrest and citizen complaints about delays in food relief efforts, and they were now speaking openly of an event they were calling “The Crash.” The fact that many of the riots had preceded the stock market collapse seemed all but forgotten, and the fact that Election Day was postponed in the northeast was not even mentioned. You would think that something so monumental might be in the news on that first Tuesday in November. But if you thought that, you would be wrong.